
Class 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



Verse for Little Folks 
and Others 



By 



Eugene Secor 




Published by Successful Farming, Des Moines, Iowa 



Copyright 1911 
By Alson Secor 



DEDICATED TO THE LOVERS 
OF NATURE 



Art Work by 
Egbert Noicnaji Clark 



©CI.A300977 



\A 



W 



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Prosy Remarks About the Author 

It is for the purpose of putting some 
of my father's nature verse into a 
form in which they may be better 
preserved that I assemble them in this 
little volume. Many have appeared in 
different publications, and some are 
recorded here for the first time. 

For half a century he has lived in 
the one spot among the trees, the 
flowers, the bees and squirrels. This 
home bears the appropriate name of 
"The Shelter, " for it is indeed a shelter 
for every harmless living thing, as 
well as for his many friends who 
chance that way. 

Here in the bosom of Nature, the 
Muse has touched the chords of his 
poetic soul and many are the rhymes, 
that have eminated from ' 'The Shelter. ' * 

ALSON SECOR 
Des Moines, la., Dec. 1911 



CONTENTS 



The Wood Thrush 5 

Mister Redhead 6 

Robin Redbreast 8 

The Brown Thrasher 10 

Nesting Time II 

DeLi'lOrOwl 12 

The First Robin 13 

The Bobtail Rooster 14 

Hunting Eggs 16 

The Pumpkin-Seed Calf 18 

The White-Faced Coh 20 

The Mooly Cow 22 

Baby Sheep 23 

When the Cows Come Home 24 

The Wabbly Calf 26 

Mrs. Kitty Cottontail 28 

The Red Squirrel 30 

The Hunted 32 

The Brindle Cat 33 

Blind Kittens 34 

Talking to Tabby 36 

A Little Brown Toad 38 

About a Bee 40 

The Big Red Apple 43 

When the Bees are Coming Home 44 

To a Katydid 46 

When Strawberries are Ripe 48 

An Anniversary Song 51 

A Summer Idyl 52 

An Apple Seed 54 

The Little Preacher 56 

Jack Frost 58 

A Thunder Shower 60 

Goldenrod 61 

Goldenrods and A.<ster» 62 

Blackeyed Susan 64 




The yellow sun is sinking low, 
Tingeing the sky with mellow glow. 
I hear a restful vesper hymn 
Poured from a high and hidden limb. 

The mate is brooding near away, 
Where, through the weary, fretting 

day. 
She, like a prophetess, doth see 
Winged music in that nesting-tree. 

Who would not wait in patience long 
And ply his task, if such a song. 
Sung by the one he loved the best 
Could cheer him in his daily quest? 

That matchless strain, almost divine, 
More sweetly sounds at day's decline. 
When weary Nature asks surcease 
From toil and care and prays for peace. 

Thy speckled vest and tawny coat 
Cover a tuneful, happy throat. 
All day thy cadenced music flows, 
But richer, sweeter at its close. 



As evening comes to me may I 
Sing songs of hope to passers by — 
Sing till the deepening shadows fall 
To Him who broodeth over all. 




See the woodpecker peck tliat old tree! 
What d'you think he is trying to do? 
Digs a hole with his bill, don't you 

see? — 
That's his auger and small chisel, too. 
R-rap-a-tap, r-rap-a-tap at it early and 

late, 
First a breakfast of worms, then a 

house for his mate. 

I should think it would make his head 

ache — 
Or don't birds ever have such mean 

things? 
"They don't eat so much candy and 

cake, 
And feel sick when the morning bell 

rings?" 
R-rap-a-tap, r-rap-a-tap, he is always at 

work. 
And the worms better "git" if they 

don't like his dirk. 



What a lovely white shirt front he 

shows. 
And his coat is as black as a crow. 



But his head is as red as a rose — 

Red as blood that the butcher makes 
flow. 

R-rap-a-tap, r-rap-a-tap, like a boy with 
a drum. 

For he never gets tired till the even- 
ing has come. 

'Way up high where an old rotten 

limb 
Has been torn by the wind from a tree 
There's the cunningest hole made by 

him, 
And a little red head peeps at me. 
R-rap-a-tap, r-rap-a-tap, hear the mate 

after grubs! 
While one watches the nest t'other just 

rub-a-dubs. 



How I wish I could live in that way. 
In a hole away up in a tree, 
I could go where I please in the day. 
And at night how the wind would rock 

me! 
And I'd rub-a-dub-dub, and I'd rap-a- 

tap-tap 
Every morning before you had finished 

your nap. 




-7— 




A pair of robins built their nest 

Heside our cottage door, 
Bro't sticks and straws witli little rest, 
And with much labor wove and press'd 

The shapeless mass to walls and 
floor 

To hold the frail eggs, four. 

N'ot such fine artists, nor so brave, 

As is the oriole. 
Who hangs her well-built nest to wave. 
Fearless, though angry tempests rave, 

But more substantial stays control 

The robin's scraggy roll. 

A friendly fork of sheltering tree 

Is their supreme delight. 
They feel that here in some degree 
Is much desired security. 

For dawning life is helpless, quite, 

And needs maternal sight. 



The mother brooded while he sang 
His cheeriest notes to her — 



The morning with his clarion rang, 
A strong, encouraging harangue. 

His voice was heard from some tall 
fir 

Before men were astir. 

A miracle was wrought one day, 

Four open mouths were seen, 

And then how diligent were they 

The yard and garden to survey! 

Many a fat worm did they glean 

From out the meadow green. 

Four hungry squabs to satisfy. 
Four growing appetites, 

Four helpless babes 'tween earth and 
sky 

That must be fed and taught to fly. 
Defended from whatever frights 
And nestled warmly nights. 

What lesson may I learn from you. 

Patient and faithful pair? 
Learn to be diligent and true, 
Be up and brush the morning dew, 
Of life's hard duties take your share, 
There's blessing oft in pare. 




-9- 




On fair Creation's morn 
When new-made stars together sang, 
And th' bells of heaven in gladness 
rang, 

Was music born. 

'Twas then that happy note 
Was planted in the solitudes 
Of ancient, aromatic woods 

For thy trim throat. 

Thy voice was tuned on nigh, 
'Twas keyed to heavenly harmonies. 
Such poems, dropped from out the 
skies, 

No gold can buy. 

I like your tawny hue, 
It looks so Quakerlike and shy, 
You do not court the public eye — 

Always in view. 

You love a quiet spot 
Away from every sordid care. 
You pour your soul out freely where 

Mankind is not. 

And O, such matchless trills! 
The heav'nly choir on Bethlehem's 

plains 
Echoed not sweeter, holier strains 

Back from tha hills. 

Sing on, tawny bard, 
Teach me the secret of thy art. 
Teach me to reach a brother's heart 

Without reward. 



—10— 




Two robins chatted in a tree 

One ruddy April morning. 
Slie talked of where the nest should 

be, 
Examined every limb, but he 

Just sang, all labor scorning. 

She carried sticks and straws, while 
he 

Sat on a limb above her 
Splitting his throat in tuneful glee, 
Watching her build in the apple-tree, 

He playing lazy lover. 

He thinks he's nothing else to do. 
While Mrs. Redbreast's working, 

But whistle loud the whole day 
through. 

And I don't think that's fair, do you? 
It seems to me like shirking. 

But maybe she is satisfied 

If only he will linger 
To cheer his newly-wedded bride 
Whose wifely duties are her pride, 

S'ince she is not a singer. 




Dc Li'l or Owl 

De li'l or owl in de awchud say. 
Wen de baby stahs come out to play, 

He say "Who-who! Wlio-who!" 
An' I talk back to him dis way; 

I say, Who-who am you? 
De li'l ol' owl up in de tree 
He blink be eye an' say to me 
He just woke up an' he can't see, 

An' so he ax "Who-who?" 

De li'l ol' owl he sleep all day, 
An' jus' at da'k wake up an' say 

"Who-who! who-who r who-who!" 
He want to scare de folks away, 
An' den de mice '11 come an' play, 
He cotch 'em quick an' nevah say 

To dem, "Who-who! Who-who!" 

De li'l ol' owl he woll he eyes 

An' twy to make you t'ink he wise, 

An wen he say "Who-who," 
You say he know a whole lot mo' 
If he unlock his ol' mouf-do'. 
But he keep wise jes as befo'. 

An say "Who-who! who-who!" 
I 'spec' dat owl he got a wife, 
Dat gad about an' spile his life. 

An so he ax "Who-who?" 
He like to know who am de chap 
W'at coax her off w'en he done nap, 
If he jes cotch her in his lap 
Dah'd be de bigges' kind o' scrap — 

Dat wy he say "Who-who?" 



—12— 



The First Robin 

The larch's topmost twig is bent — 

A cradle lent 
To aid his musical intent — 

And lusty is his song. 
Though crisp the lucent air, the note 
From out his throat 
Is for despair an antidote, 

Though winter's tarried long. 

Brave prophet of a better day, 

I love thy lay, 
Thou see'st the greenery of May 

While yet the trees are bare. 
Thy hope inspires my heart to sing, 
Gives faith sure wing. 
Because thy prophecy of spring 

Rebukes the chilly air. 

Thou art the vanguard of a host 

Who'll charge the ghost 
Of Winter with a song almost 

Before his soul has passed. 
Now, if he flings his darts at me 
I'll think of thee 
And all thy comrades soon to be. 

And victory forecast. 




-13- 




Old Plymouth Rock has lost his tail 
And doesn't care to find it, 

So long as all the hens are true 
He never seems to mind it; 

They like his voice the best of all 
And never look behind it. 

The bobtail rooster has twelve wives 

A-tagging him around, 
They run with haste when he begins 

To scratch upon the ground. 
He makes the simple hens believe 

Some choice bit he has found. 

And when he does unearth a worm 
He wants the world to know it. 

He loudly calls his harem round, 
Boasting the while, to show it, 

Hut just as they come up to eat 
Himself proceeds to stow it. 

And thus he fools his dozen wives 

A hundred times a day, 
They hang upon his idle words 

Because he knows the way 



-14- 



To play the lover, and to talk 
And little nothings say. 

The bobtail rooster knows a lot 
That I would like to know; 

I wonder how he tells the time 
Without a clock to show. 

And wakes up in the darkest night 
At certain times to crow? 

The bobtail rooster from the fence 
Proclaims the weather fair, 

But on the ground he's very sure 
That rain is in the air; 

If from the doorstep he shall crow, 
For company prepare. 

But Mr. Bobtail little knows 
What soon may be his fate 

When visitors that he foretells 
Turn in the open gate. 

Unless he hides beneath the barn 
He'll grace the dinner-plate. 








— 15— 




M\ 



I wonder, Mamma, where the hens 
Get all the eggs they lay! 

I find them all about the barn 
Hid in the straw and hay. 

You say that eggs just grow and grow. 

Where are the seeds? I'd like to know. 

The eggs I find are all so round, 
And hard, and smooth, and white, 

With shells so thin I hardly dare 
Drop one or squeeze it tight. 

I wonder why they grow so frail. 

And break so when I drop my pail? 

The white hens lay white eggs I know 

Because I saw one do it, 
Do black hens lay black eggs, Mamma? 

O how I wish I knew it. 
If all are white and just like these. 
Where do black chickens come from, 
please? 



And then the insides are so queer. 
The white part slips around— 

I couldn't put it in the shell 
When broken on the ground. 

The yellow part too, was just spoiled, 

It won't stay round unless it's boiled! 

How nice it is, Mamma, that hens 

Lay painted eggs for me 
On Easter Sunday every year — 



-16— 



Just what I love to see. 
They're awful pretty, but / aint 
Been feeding tTiem a hit of paint! 

I think I'd like to have a hen 

When I'm a little older. 
Would she give me three eggs a day 

If I went out and told her? 
You say she never lays but one? 
Then she must cackle just for fun! 

You say she's happiest when she 
works? 

Well, I believe that's so, 
For when you let me help keep house 

I'm happier, I know. 
I'm going to be like hens that lay, 
And do a little every day. 




-17— 




A farmer bought a cream machine, 

A wonderful invention 
To skim new milk with gasoline 

And beat the Dame's intention. 
He fixed it up out in the barn 

With everything so handy — 
"That's just a beautiful consarn," 

Quoth the farmer's wife, Mirandy. 

The thing extracted all the fat 

And left the milk so blue 
It wouldn't tempt a hungry cat 

Or anything that knew. 
He fed it to a silly calf 

That never knew a mother, 
A pailful of the stufi 'twould quaff 

And then bawl for another. 

The farmer wondered why that calf 
Looked like a pumpkin-seed 

When it was fed six quarts an' a half 
Of warm milk at a feed. 

But he was slow to learn the fact 
Of a needed balanced ration — 



-18— 



That when some factors we extract 
There must be compensation. 

And I have wondered oft myself 

If that's why we don't grow; 
W^e starve our souls in th' greed for 
pelf, 

Anxious to make a show. 
We need a balanced mental food 

To round out every part — 
The oil of love and th' grace of God 

To stimulate the heart. 




-i^-~ 




The milk-white mare is coming, 

A-coming to the barn 
From out the river pasture 

To get a bit of corn; 
And by her side is running 

The cutest baby horse, 
His crooked legs a-wabbling, 

Bound to keep up, of course. 

This colt is yellow, faded — 

All but his face, thafs white. 
I never saw a little young one 

All white, did you? Honor bright! 
My grandpa says white horses 

Are quite a common thing. 
But baby colts that color 

Are scarce as swans that sing. 

I've heard him talk 'bout London, 
And a bridge so very long 

That every single minute . 
White horses 're in the throng. 

But if all colts are colored 
I would so like to know 



—20- 



Where all the white old horses 
Get coats that look like snow. 

If horses, like some people. 

Turn white when they grow old, 
Will one that's black be younger? 

Pa says, "Yes, when he's sold." 
But if this white-face colty 

Turns all white, I don't care, 
I love him like a brother, 

And we'll keep him, so there! 




-21- 



The Mooly Cow 



We have the funniest looking cow 
You ever saw, I guess, 

She has no horns upon her brow 
Where horns should grow, unless 
Cows never care for dress. 

But Papa says they never grow'd, 
I'm glad of that, ain't you? 

For if I met her on the road 
With horns, and she said "moo," 
I don't know what I'd do. 

When Papa goes at night to milk 
I always want to go; 

I like to feel her coat of silk 
And say, "So, bossy, so!" 
And see the white stream flow. 

And then I hold my little cup 

And Papa fills it full, 
And after I have drank it up 

I watch him pull and pull 

Until the pail is full. 

When I grow up to be a man 

I'll have a mooly cow, 
I'll feed her lots of corn and bran 

And clover from the mow. 

Like Papa's doing now. 




-22- 



Baby Sheep 

You ought to see our little lambs, 
'Bout one day old, or maybe two, 
They wabble just like babies do 
When they begin to walk alone, 
And when their mas — pa says they're 
dams — 
Call, how they run, each to its 
own. 

If such a lamb tagged Mary round 
I do not wonder children smiled. 
For such a thing would set us wild 
At our school house, then teacher'd 
pound 
The desk and say that baby sheep 
Should stay at home to eat and 
sleep. 

One mamma sheep had two this spring, 
"With crooked legs and wiggly tails, 
They'd follow her along the trails 
And knew her voice from all the 
rest. 
If I could choose from everj^thing 
i think I'd like twin lambs the 
• best. 




-23- 




When the Cows Come Home 

Up the lane the cows are coming, 
Judith, red and large and gentle; 
Jest, the roan, with eyes like chest- 
nuts; 
Jessie, leisurely advancing; 
Janice, June and Judith's Baby, 
All with heavy laden udders, 
Coming from the lucious pasture. 
Where the fragrance of the clover 
Tempts the honey bees to gather 
Nectar fit for any Eden. 

Homeward from the checkered corn 

fields, 
Come the horses, heavy footed — 
Tired and sweaty — to the stable. 
Long the day has been and arduous, 
Weeds have perished by the million, 
And the corn is stretching upward 
Toward the sun for his warm kisses — 
God and man in combination 
Daily working miracles. 

Hear the Quaker-vestured catbird 
Pouring forth his evening ditty 
From the untrimm'd roadside hedge- 
row. 
Like a trained, accomplished singer. 
While his little wife is listeniiig 
Prom her hidden habitation. 
Where she guards five helpless nest- 
lings — 
Holding care a sacred duty. 



-24- 



See the tireless chimney swallows, 
Sailing low in search of insects — 
Swiftly skim the very treetops! 
Thus it is life pays the forfeit, 
"Feed the fittest," says Dame Nature, 
"And preserve the rightful balance." 
Carrying out the fatal mandate, 
Pestering flies and speared mosquitoes 
Are converted into feathers, 
Glossy feathers, full of twitter. 

Come up Judy, leave the clover, 
Leave the scented mellilotus. 
Bees are flying slowly homeward, 
Flying homeward, honey laden; 
Come, my gentle, large-eyed Josie, 
Come and yield your creamy surplus. 
O, the wealth of clover pastures. 
That produce both milk and honey. 
Type of plenty that was promised 
In the fertile land of Canaan! 

Hushed the sounds of rural labor; 
John comes in to see the skimming 
And the shapely arms of Mary 
As she deftly plies the skimmer. 
Sweeter is her smile than clover. 
Sweeter voice has she than catbird's 
Singing in the roadside hedges, 
Gentler are her ways than Judith's — 
Queen of all the gentle Shorthorns, 
Swifter she in lovitig service 
Than the glossy chimney swallow 
Darting after speared mosquitoes. 
And her welcome home is stronger 
Than the daily calls of hunger. 



-26- 




To our red barn there came last night 
The cutest thing I ever saw, 

I wish you could have seen the sight, 
A baby calf hid in the straw. 

The mama cow said "Mo-o" 

"When we went out to see her baby. 
She was afraid we wanted to 

Take it away and keep it, maybe. 

And then it tried to run about 
As if to show us it was spry. 

Its legs, though wabbled in and out 
Like willow canes before they're dry. 

My papa said some men he knew 
Were just as wabbly as that calf, 

I don't know what he meant, do you? 
But mama did — it made her laugh. 

To think that anything so young 
Can walk at all's what stumps me so, 

For baby Grace can't race among 
The rest of us, and she's most two. 



-26- 



And mama says that wabbly calf 
Will be a cow and give us cream 

In 'bout two birthdays and a half — 
How very odd it all does seem! 

For I'll be then a little girl 
A-learning how to read and spell, 

Not half as big as sister Pearl, 
And bossy giving milk to sell! 

I guess when I'm as tall as Ma 
The wabbly calf will be real old. 

And 'fore I know as much as Pa 
I'm 'fraid the darling will be sold. 




-27- 




Mrs. Kitty Cottontail 

Out in the orchard, close by an old tree 

Lived a shy little mother with her ba- 
bies three; 

In a bed of dry grasses and soft, brown 
leaves 

She hid them away from the boys — 
little thieves 
Who would rob Mrs. Kitty 
Of her babies so pretty 

And carry them home for their sisters 
to see. 

They grew every day, those wee ba- 
bies three 

Hid under the roots of that old apple 
tree. 

And soon they were playing and run- 
ning alone, 

And nibbling the clover the farmer had 
sown. 
But not far from home 
Did they dare to roam, 

For bad boys and dogs were the dread 
of the three. 

Mrs. Cottontail wears a handsome grey 

suit — 
Warm in winter, cool when summer 

yields her fruit — 
So like the grey leaves of the woods in 

the fall 
That she'd be unnoticed except for the 

ball 
Of conspicuous white 



She has always in sight — 
A brief invitation to gunners to shoot. 

One winter the ground was all covered 

with snow, 
And tracks in the orchard were found 

looking so ( : • ) — 
A colon ahead and a period behind — 
A thumb and two fingers will call it to 

mind. 
Mrs. Kitty was out 
For a lark, without doubt, — 
Three tracks with four feet, a trick 

they all know. 

I once knew a boy who tried to do 

right. 
But he set a steel trap for a rabbit 

one night. 
Next morning a poor, little, innocent 

thing 
"With broken hind legs as limp as a 

string 
Was struggling and bleeding. 
Her frightened eyes pleading, 
And for weeks he saw them when his 

were shut tight. 




OLU.^^ 



-29- 




There's a little red squirrel I see ev- 
ery day 
In the trees by our house. 
He's the liveliest thing In the world I 

should say, 
And he jerks his long tall in the fun- 
niest way — 
And he's sleek as a mouse! 

In the fall he is busy as busy can be 

Gathering acorns to keep, 
And if he cannot find a decayed hollow 

tree 
Where the roof doesn't leak and the 
boys cannot see. 
Builds a nest for his heap. 

A great basket of leaves in a tree up so 
hi'gh 
Makes one dizzy to look, 
There he sleeps in a bed that is both 

warm and dry 
When the weather is cold, and the 
snow fills the sky — 
With no breakfast to cook. 



-30- 



Now he grabs a black walnut between 
his two paws. 
And he twirls it around 
Till he finds where the shell is the 

thinnest, then gnaws 
A smooth hole just as tho' the most 
perfect of saws 
The young rascal had found. 

But I wonder who taught little bunny 
to store 
The ripe nuts for his lunch? 
How does he know that winter is com- 
ing for sure, 
When he never saw snow or cold 
weather before, 
Nor ripe acorns to munch? * 




-31- 



The Hunted 

Hello, Mister mule-eared Eabbit, 
Whither going friend, on the run? 
Do you leap so just from habit, 
Or, think you, I have a gun? 
Brother Rabbit, wait a minute. 
If a race you want, I'm in it. 

Let's run off into the bushes 
Where the catbird pipes his song, 
Where the grosbeaks and the thrushes 
Trill like madcaps all day long. 
They'll not be afraid of me 
If I'm in your company. 

Who can tell how many lessons 
In the awful school of blood 
It requires to leave impiessions 
With our neighbors of the wood? 
Eyes and ears and quivering frame 
Speak for bunny to our shame. 

But, my timid, hunted brother, 
You are not the only game. 
Men are shooting at each other. 
Pouncing on the weak and lame. 
Everybody's studying war. 
Peasant, priest and emperor. 

Business, politics, society — 
All have loaded guns about; 
Even from the Mount of Piety 
Comes full many a crack and shout. 
Brother Rabbit, you're but one 
'Mong the hosts that die — or run. 



—32— 



The Brindle Cat 

"Me-ow! me-ow!" the brindle cat 

Is calling at the door, 
"I've had enough," she says, "of rat, 

And now want something more; 
A little milk, if it's about, 

To take the rat taste out." 
The brilidle cat says naught but "me- 
ow" — 

The only word she knows — 
A word that seems to teH somehow 

All her delights and woes. 
(All words are empty sounds unless 

Some feeling gives tliem stress.) 
The brindle cat is cousin to 

The screechowl, I believe. 
Sometimes she cries the whole night 
through 

And dodges all we heave, 
And this one word makes all the row — 

Me-ow! me-ow! me-ow! 
But when she's lying on the rug 

Contented as can be, 
She sleeps and snores without a drug 

Or any soothing tea. 
And if one gently strokes her now 

She'll softly answer, "me-ow." 




-33- 




We found one day 

Out in the hay 

Four kittens with their eyes 

Shut tight, 

Although 'twas light 

And long, long past sunrise. 

I said, "Grand'pa, they're fast asleep, 

An' I will go tiptoe, an' keep 

Real still. 

Lest they awake 

An' cry an' make 

Thei'r mamma ill." 

But grand'pa, he is wise. 

He said young kittens' eyes 

Stay shut all day; 

An' when I asked the reason why, 

He said it was God's way 

To make 'em sharp bye 'n bye. 

An' then he thought some more 'an 

said 
That kittens when they're cats 



-34- 



Always see straight, an' thats 
A thing in which they are ahead 
Of us, he said, because we don't 
See things we ought to — or we won't. 
An' then we often blindly miss 
The path to happiness. 

My gran'pa knows a lot 
That's awful hard for me, 
But when I'm big as like as not 
I'll be as wise as he. 



One, two, three, four- — 

To each I pointed 

Till they were counted 

And laid out on the floor. 

One looked like dirty coal. 

One white, all but it's tail. 

Two spotted — and all frail — 

That makes my kitten roll. 

My brother calls them scrubs, 

But I don't care, 

They're just as nice as Teddy cubs, 

So there! 




Darling pussy-cat! 
Lying on my lap, 

Snoring while you nap, 
Fur as soft as Mamma's muff, 
You look innocent enough 
Sleeping, purring, snoring, 
Into dreamland soaring. 
What is it you dream about? 
Catching mice, I have no doubt — 
Maybe, though, it is a rat. 
Purring pussy cat! 

Sly old pussy-cat! 
Such velvety footies 

"Without any booties. 
That's why you surprise the mice — 
Grab your victim in a trice. 
They can't hear you walK, 

And you never talk 
When you're hunting dinner-game,- 
I declare it is a shame. 
Pouncing on a thing like that, 

Naughty pussy-cat! 

Dainty pussy-cat! 
Now you're wide awake, 
And I see you take 
First one front foot, then the other, 
Wash your face without a mother — 
You make me ashamed, 
'Cause I'm always blamed 
When I fail to wash my face. 
An' smooth my hair into its place — 
You've no one to tell you that, 
Clean-faced pussy-cat! 



-36- 



0, you pussy-cat! 
How you ever see 
Is what puzzles me, 
Th' little crack in your eye 
May be all right when you lie 
All cuddled up snug 
On a soft, warm rug, 
But if you were hunting dinner 
And set out to be a winner, 
You'd need better eyes than that, 
I think, pussy-cat. 

Wicked pussy-cat! 

One thing I don't like, 
You have claws to strike, 
Underneath those velvet toes. 
Sharp as briars beneath a rose. 
I'd rather not feel 
Such hooks, like cold steel. 
It's lucky I'm not a mouse 
Living with you in the house, 
My heart would go pit-a-pat. 
Wicked pussy-cat! 

Come, poor pussy-cat! 
Now I come to think, 
Don't you need some milk 
drink? 
You do the best that you know, — 
Wonder if we all do so? 
It's easy enough 
To scold and be rough, 
Find a lot of fault with you 
When we've better things to do, — 
You do what God set you at, 
Pa says, pussy-cat! 



to 



-37- 




Hippety-hop, little toad, 
Why do you stop in the road? 
Waiting for me to talk with? 
Four little feet to walk with, 
Four little legs to race with, 
Enough to run any place with. 
Why do you sit on the ground 
While I am skipping around, 
Happy with only two feet? 
And I can easily beat 

You with your four, little toad. 
What makes you blink, little toad? 

Sunshine too bright in the road? 
You'd rather sit in the shade 
Maybe, where eyes never fade. 
Couldn't catch flies in the light, 
Could you, were the sun very bright? 
"^T^Tiat do you think, little toad? 

You have no teeth, little toad, 
Can't bite me hard, if you would. 
How do you manage your food? 
Mamma tells me it's not good. 
Eating things whole as you do. 
But, if 'twere worms, I'd want to. 
Indeed I would, little toad. 



-38- 



Since you can't bite, little toad, 
Good thing for you your warts growed; 
No one likes them very well; 
Dogs, even, drop you and yell, 
Just as they would if you bit. 
So you are safe when you sit 
Under a leaf to get rest, 
So I am sure warts are best — 

Yes, best for you, little toad. 
How many toes, little toad? 
Shouldn't have guessed, but you 

showed 
Eight toes In front, ten behind. 
Thanks for the sight. You are kind. 
Why more behind than in front? 
Hind legs must suffer the brunt 
When there's hard toad work to do, 
So I've been told; is it true? 
Hope toads never sucked the thumb. 
Stunting it till it didn't come — 
Hope that isn't so, little toad. 
Where did you stay, little toad. 
When it was cold and it snowed? 
Under some leaves, so I heard. 
Slept till the song of a bird 
Told you 'twas time to come out 
And see what folks were about. 
When you have found the right spot. 
Nearby in our garden plot. 
Hide every worm, every bug. 
Inside your little brown jug — 
Pa says you will, little toad. 




-39- 




Here's a bee, my children, see! 
Gath'ring sweets for you and 
On Sir Dandy Lion's crown 
She is yellow that was brown. 
Yellow with the golden dust 
Lent to her in solemn trust; 
Blossoms bart'ring gold for gold 
Through this dusty trader bold. 
Dandy Lion seeks a bride. 
Sends his off' rings far and wide 
Hy his trusty friend the bee, 
And with honey pays the fee. 
See her double pairs of wihgs! 
And they are such perfect things! 
Airships are as poky snails 
When she spreads her gauzy sails; 
While they're getting under way 
Miles she'll go and call it play. 



Hairy legs are good for bees. 
Therefore she has six of these. 
She has baskets on her knees 
T' carry bread for baby bees. 
She has hooks upon her toes, 
Uses them to climb, and knows 
How to make a ladder where 
Others need a boost or stair. 
By these hooks bees hang like strings, 
Clasping others' legs or wings. 

See her suck the honey up 
From Sir Dandy Lion's cup! 



-40— 



Could you see her hollow tongue 
You'd imagine she is young, 
Sucking "lemo" through a straw — 
"Finest drink you ever saw?" 
Yes, but hers is ready made, 
And beats any lemonade, — 
Sugar'd just to suit her taste, 
Is it strange that she makes haste? 
She'll go home and tell the rest 
That she's Dandy Lion's guest, 
That he fills the golden cup 
Ev'ry time she drinks it up. 
If you had a tongue like that 
Wouldn't you throw up your hat? 

Notice those two prongs in front, 
They're put there so she won't bunt 
'Gainst her ma some moonless night 
When the stars are out of sight. 
She just feels her way along 
Through the dark, and midst the 

throng. 
Feelers take the place of hands. 
When she meets her dearest friends 
Reaches out as if to say 
"Howdy do! art well today?" 
Some wise men think they're her ears, 
(Feels the sound instead of hears). 
These same wise men say she smells 
All the fragrant lily bells. 
All the clover-fields In bloom, 
And the linden's choice perfume 
Through these horn-like antennae — 
Useful, aren't they, to the bee? 



-41- 



But, you say, she has a sting 
That Is not a pleasant thing. 
Yes, but roses, too, have briers. 
And too many fond desires 
Have a stinger at the end. 
Sometimes we., too, sting a friend. 
Shall we then demand of her 
All the virtues when we err? 
Stingers are for self defense 
'Gainst attempts of violence. 
We, too, may defend our homes 
'Gainst whatever evil comes. 
She, like us, will sometimes use It, 
Sometimes in her heat abuse It, 
Never saying "Please excuse it," 
But she seldom fails to lose it. 
We may sting and sting again 
Tho' our friends are dead with pain. 
Stingers, children, are all right 
When they don't appear in sight. 




-42- 




An apple hung upon a limb, 
A big, red apple, round and trim. 

The stem that held it was so slim 
I wondered why it didn't fall. 

What made the apple blush so red? 

Why wasn't it white or green in- 
stead? 
Did Mr. Sun shine on its head 

When it had lost its parasol? 

Perhaps it wants to go and see 
Some clever folks like you and me. 
It's tired, maybe, of this old tree. 
And dresses ready for a ride. 

For all the people that I know 
Will pick the red ones when they go 
To visit friends; they want to show 
The big red apples far and wide. 





'Tis evening: Day has folded its tired 
wings 

To rest, fann'd by the scented southern 
breeze; 

And homeward fly the prudent honey- 
bees 

To join their happy sisters 'neath the 
trees, 

Content if some sweet gain their la- 
bor brings. 

The fragrant grass is cushion'd seat 

for me, 
And In my lap the head of soft brown 

hair 
That once my heart entangled, lying 

there — 
More youthful then, but not more 

dearly fair — 
And sweet her lips as nectar sipt by 

bee. 

"What fools we mortals be!" We fume 
and fret 



-44- 



Because of life's unceasing round of 

toil, 
Permitting gold our happiness to spoil. 
When love and service are the holy oil 
That blesses all the wealth we need 

to get. 

The soft, low hum that falls upon our 

ears 
As darkness creeps upon the glowing 

west, 
Is labor's song proclaiming that the 

best 
Of all that's good is found through 

daily quest — 
And duty leaves no time for useless 

tears. 




-45- 




Touch your lute-strings, Katydid, 
Silent sits your love a-listening, 
But she cannot play or sing, 
Neither lute has she nor string, 

So she makes believe she's hid, 

Serenader Katydid. 

Don't you get a little tired? 
But, perhaps she lifts a blind, 
Slyly peeping from behind — 
Telling you that she does mind — 
Makes you think that you're inspired. 
Then you never dream you're tired. 

Why's your frock coat always green? 
Ah, I think that I can guess. 
Colored like the leaves your dress 
"Will be noticed, maybe, less; 
Then while you are all unseen 
Tune your lute-strings for the e'en. 

Lovers always love the night. 
Darkness makes the lover bold. 
Lovers meet when the day Is old 



—46- 



And turn the moonbeams into gold. 
Neighbor Katydid, you're right, 
Other lovers love the night. 

Other lovers, too, are mute 
Just like you when courting's done — 
STiveeter words when love's begun 
Than when love is surely won. 
A few brief ni'ghts you press your suit, 
Then you put away your lute. 

Neighbor Katydid, we play 
Making love a little longer, 
We're a little larger, stronger; 
You may die a little younger, 

We but stay our little day. 

Then we're housed in friendly clay. 




-47- 



When Strawberries are Ripe 

The morning's as fresli as a dew-span- 
gled rose, 

O come where the strawberries grow; 

Come, drink of the wine which is 
poured out for those 

Who witness the first ruddy glow 
Far in the east: — 
Come, then and feast — 

The garden is red with the best fruit 
that grows. 

When strawberries ripen, how green 
are the trees! 

What odors the clover sends forth! 

How swift to the hives fly the sweet- 
laden bees! 

How fragrant the sensuous earth! 
Come, ere it's late. 
The strawberries wait 

Your loving embrace, as you fall on 
your knees. 

When strawberries ripen, and young 

lips are red 
As the sunrise that tinges the east, 
Come early, my Love, to the straw- 
berry bed 
Where beauty invites to the feast. 
Ripe strawberries. 
Like lovers' kisses, 
Are lucious when plucked ere the 
morning be fled. 



-48- 



The robin is calling her young to the 

spot, 
And scolds us for bothering her so; 
She fears not our presence, for never 

a shot 
Has echoed to scare her, altho' 

She claims some toll — 

Please don't say she stole 
Because she takes pay for the songs 

you've forgot. 

A month has gone by since, both morn- 
ing and eve. 
Her mate has regaled us with song; 
At peep o' the day and until the night, 

we've 
Been cheered by his notes; and among 
The garden rows 
Where lurk our foes. 
How many fat worms he's assisted to 
leave! 

The cat-bird and grosbeak, the brown- 
thrush and jay, 
(Every eve, in strawberry time) 
All coax, in full chorus, the swift fly- 
ing day 
To tarry and list to their chime. 
O, blessed songs 
Of the feathered throngs 
That lure anxious hearts from all 
worry away! 

When Bossie is milked and the full- 
brimming pail 



-49- 



Suggests some nice cream for the mor- 
row, 
"We'll heap the pan high with ripe ber- 
ries, and mail 
A note to some friends in the borough 
To be our guests 
When the purpling west's 
Aglow with Sol's fire — and they'll 
come without fail! 

When strawberries ripen, the warm 

changeful skies — 
Now smiling, now weeping by turns — 
Remind one of woman, whose win- 

someness lies 
In tears or in fervor that burns, 
But changeful days. 
Nor her moodful ways, 
Can lessen the charms of my Love's 
bonny eyes. 




—50- 




A flame is on the golden-rod. 
It lights up every lane, 
A joy is in my heart again — 

And both are gifts of God. 

The golden-rod was bright that day 
When we as lovers plighted — 
When we as lovers were united 

Beneath its golden spray. 

Sunshine got tangled in the flower 

And lingers with it fain. 

And sunshine lights love's golden 
chain 
That binds us in our bower; 
And sunshine glints along the road 

Of life, with love along, 

And strains of golden-noted song 
Have blest our joint abode. 

The golden-belted honey bee 
Brings golden harvest home 
To store in golden honeycomb — 

Her well-earned golden fee; 

So when the golden beauties nod. 
And love is sweet and true, 
I bless the Father for these two — 

For thee and golden-rod. 

—51— 




A Summer Idyl 

I hear a rustle in the corn 
Along the checkered rows, 
And every day new-born 
I mutter "How it grows!" 
I hear a whisper, — listen! 
Leaf unto stalk, says, "Hasten! 
Don't dally in the sun, 
You have a lot of work to do 
Before the summer's done, 
And I'll help, too." 

The leaves in chorus say: 

"Oh hang your dusty banners out, 

Ye stalks, where breezes play 

At match-making each day 

Till wedding bells ring out." 

The silken ears, too, hear the shout 

And long to give the bride away. 

I hear of plans the corn is making — 
A whispered scheme to see 
The world outside, forsaking 
The pent-up field for liberty. 
Each ear is planning to put on 
Its richest colored suit, 

To ride the briny seas upon. 
And the kings of earth salute. 

I hear the gossip of the corn, 
It claims its kin is royal-born, 
And when it travels far 
By ship or car, 



-52- 



It goes to meet the high-born sons 

Of other lands, where skies 
Are kind, but Maize pines and dies — 
As pines the maid whom faithless lov- 
er shuns. 



The Shorthorn steer just shakes his 

sides 
A-listening to the talk. 
For well he knows that if it rides 
He doesn't need to walk. 
And if to merry England goes 
A cargo from the checkered rows, 
He'll carry to his native shore, 
In juicy sirloins, bushels more. 

The Poland China smiles 

To hear the corn a-whispering. 

And he begins to sing- — 

For' thought of eating oft beguiles 

The greedy into smiles. 

But all the virgins in the patch 

Are anxious to be wed. 

And gossip long about the catch, 

And each prospective match. 

As if no one were listening. 

But I heard what was said. 




-58- 



An Apple Seed 

This small brown Sphinx 

Which I hold in my hand, 

It came from out the orchard's best; 

A little chUd may eat and crush 

The splendid miracle that links 

It to a purpose planned, 

Or, I may gently push 

It .'neath the soft, warm mould and 

test 
Its worth with little toil 
In God's alembic, genial soil. 

Who knows but in this tiny shell 
Lies, sleeping, some creation new 
That's destined to outlast 
The monuments upreared to tell 
Where Mammon moulders 'neath the 

dew 
When titled wealth has passed? 
No marvel on this big, round earth 
Is greater than its birth. 

Could I but read 

The mighty secrets locked 

In one brown seed 

I think I'd know the Power that 

rocked 
The cradle of the world when young; 
I'd know the thoughts of God 
As angels know, who long have trod 
The heavenly hills among. 

This curious elf leads fancy out 

To scented orchards pink with bloom, 



Kih 



-64- 



To wild birds' nesting-ways, 
Where childhood's gleeful shout 
Speaks joy that's woven in the loom 
Of hope, whose cheerful shuttle plays 
In hearts on life's spring days. 




-55- 




If I could talk 

In such an earnest way 

As our old kitchen clock — 

And make the people hear 

At all times of the year — 

I think I'd be a preacher. 

It stands up straight, and I hear it say 

To every human creature: 

"I never w^aste 
A minute in a day, 
And yet I never haste. 
But tick and tick away 
Until they mind my rule. 
I tell them when to go to bed 
And when to rise 
If they'd be wise. 

I tell the kitchen maid 
Just when to ring the bell 
For breakfast, and I tell 
The children not to be too late. 

For if they are as sure as fate 
They'll lose their grade at school. 

"I tell folks when to take the train 

To go abroad and home again. 

The dinner's called 

At my command. 

All seem to understand 

—56— 



My tick-tack talk 

And fingers pointing at some present 

duty 
In my old-fashioned way. 
They dare not balk. 
Looking square in my face each day, 
Altho' it is no beauty. 
And I am getting old." 

The old clock says: "Keep doing, 

Don't stop, but keep pursuing. 

The trees don't grow full size 

In one short day before your eyes. 

But day and night they keep a-grow- 

ing. 
A little work done every minute 
Grows like a cake with soda in it." 

If I could talk 

Like that old clock 

I, too, would be a preacher 

And lecture every thinking creature. 




-57- 



Jack Frost 



You sly old chap, 
I wonder where you stay 
When summer's on the hill and plain. 
And the golden sun makes golden 
grain! 
Then, where's your home, I pray? 
Where do you nap? 

I think I know, 
You spend the summer where 
The iceberg comes from, and the seal 
Grows fur for ladies' necks genteel, 
Where lives the polar bear 
And Eskimo. 

Your trusty steed. 
The ready, swift Northwind 
Is mounted when you travel south. 
An ice cream breath comes from your 
mouth. 
You leave white tracks behind 
As south you speed. 

You stopt one night 
To draw some pictures on 
Our kitchen windows that were fine. 
You drew a Norway spruce and pine 
Like those upon our lawn — 
All done in white. 

You bridged the lake 
With crystal fields of ice 



-58- 



In time for Christmas holidays, 
And schoolboys voted you loud praise 
For making things so nice 
Just for their sake. 

I hardly know 
Which time I like the best, 
The winter, with its ice and snow. 
Or summer when to the woods I go 
And picnic with the rest, — 
I hardly know. 




-59— 




Gran'ma, don't you hear it thunder? 

Guess we're going to have some rain! 
God is getting out his sprinklers, 

Going to wet the fields again! 
Hear the rumble of the wagons 

Gath'ring up the drops of dew! 
And sometimes they crack the ceiling, 

Letting streaks of lightning through. 

Gran'ma, why do all the showers 

Fall when clouds are in the sky? 
Couldn't God make rain as easy 

'Thout a curtaiii hung up high? 
I would like to see the horses 

Run with all their might up there, 
Gath'ring up the dews of heaven 

To sprinkle gardens everywhere. 

Gran'ma, what do flowers drink with? 

I can't see their mouths, can you? 
May'be, though, they suck the water 

Same as you said fishworms do. 
How do little thirsty pansies 

Ask for drink when they are dry? 
Doesn't God keep watch above them 

Lest the helpless things should die? 

Gran'ma, ain't you glad I'm living 

Everytime you want a drink? 
Don't I go and fetch one for you 

Quicker than a toad can wink? 
Maybe God made me to help Him 

Do a lot of little things. 
Just as dew-drops cheer the pansies 

And small rain-drops feed the 
springs. 



-60- 




When the northern autumn's near 
And the hazy atmosphere 
Mellows with the orchard fruit, 
And the cricket plays his lute. 
By the roadside, beckoning, nod 
Stalks of queenly goldenrod. 



Bob-o-Iinks that nest in June, 
Making love in merry tune. 
All have put their music by, 
Now their note is but a cry, 
But the tasseled goldenrod 
Waves its plumes and praises God. 

All the gladness of the spring 
Voiced in all the birds that sing. 
All of summer's sunny days, 
Harvest-time with yellow sprays — 
All with golden sandals shod 
Bringing gifts for goldenrod. 

Thus are Heaven's richest gifts 
Saved for those who wait, and rifts 
Radiant with the sun of hope 
Light and cheer life's western slope- 
As the autumn goldenrod 
Crowns the year— a gift from God. 



-61- 




I like the hardy crocus 

That smiles on April mornings 

While here and there a snowbank 

Wets with its tears the mold. 
I like the daring scillas 
That steal the blue of heaven, 
And, spite of chilly weather. 

Their azure flags unfold. 

I like the dandelion 

That flaunts her yellow banners 

When skies are bright wltn promise 

That fair will be the day. 
I like the single tulips 
Whose waxen doors fly open 
Inviting bees to banquet 

In hopeful, sunny May. 

But these are like some people 
That only smile in sunshine. 
And when comes cloudy weather, 

Or sudden pall of night, 
They pull their wraps about them, 
They curtain every window 



-62- 



And shut the doors to visitants 
They loved when days were bright. 

But goldenrods and asters 
That flame on every hillside 
And nod in every valley 

Are open night and day. 
They're like true friends that never 
Shut up their hearts, or waver 
When sudden dark disaster 

O'ertakes us on our way. 




-63- 




I know a stately prairie lass 
That nods a greeting when I pass 

A-near her meadow home; 
But such a maid of th' sun is she, 
She only beckons unto me 

When harvest days are come. 

Pull many a month I pass her place 
And never see the winsome face 

That tempts me to alight; 
Hut when the fervor of July 
Reveals the miss to passer-by, 

She captivates me quite. 

Bright yellow ribbons, worn with 

grace. 
Increase the beauty of her face 

Smiling among the green. 
I press her to my heart and say 
"I've watched for thee for many a day. 

My black-eyed Prail-ie Queen." 



-64— 



DEC 14 1911 



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